


War and Things Like It

by jedishampoo



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America is young but not a child here, First Time, French and Indian War, M/M, Seven Years' War, UKUS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-26
Updated: 2010-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-13 09:54:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedishampoo/pseuds/jedishampoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>French and Indian War (Seven Years' War) fic; America gets his introduction to the world of war, among other things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	War and Things Like It

**Title: War and Things Like It (Part 1 of 2)**  
 **Author:** [](http://jedishampoo.livejournal.com/profile)[**jedishampoo**](http://jedishampoo.livejournal.com/)  
 **Pairing:** England/America  
 **Rating:** R-l8 (smutsmut)  
 **Summary:** America is growing up, and gets an induction into the world of war-- and other things.  
 **Notes:** Originally written for the Hetalia kink meme, the prompt “England/America, French and Indian War, America in the red coat, possessive!England” [Here’s the Kink Meme link](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/17465.html?thread=57845305#t57845305). This is pre-Revolutionary America, of course, but he’s definitely not a child, in case you were worried; I assumed he's of age for his time period (though I don't know how "human" ages work in Hetalia-- he's at least a hundred years old or more at this point, technically, anyway). :) Thanks to the OP for the awesome request! And thank you to my amazing beta, [](http://whymzycal.livejournal.com/profile)[**whymzycal**](http://whymzycal.livejournal.com/) , who is the best ever at being encouraging while curbing my punctuation excesses. :) About 11,000 words.

  
 **War and Things Like It, Part 1 of 2**

  
 _June, 1756_

England had returned to North America. Boys were running through the streets of New York, whooping and hollering that white sails had been spotted, Milord Generals had come! Girls followed the boys in twos and threes, giggling and waving their hand-sewn Ensigns and chattering excitedly about the impending arrival of so many young men in red coats.

America stared out the window, clutching the curtains so tightly he almost yanked them from the hangers. He wanted to run to the harbor himself, whooping and hollering to show support and welcome. But he knew that England, stuffy, funny old England, would be totally irate at such a display. That might be a good enough reason to do it anyway, but then, that would be no way to prove that he, America, was growing into an adult, respectable colony and trade partner, now would it?

Besides, it would take time for England’s ships to tack into the harbor, drop their anchors, lower the jolly-boats and row ashore. So America finished reading the letter from the Ohio Company, the one whining about what the French and Indians had been doing on the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers and begging for men and supplies enough to tell France to fuck off; he might as well know what he was talking about when he met England. England liked it when America gave him information.

When America had memorized the letter, he folded it up neatly and tucked it into a drawer of his pine desk so it wouldn’t get lost before he could send it back to the governor. Then he combed his hair and checked it out in the fancy looking-glass England had brought him last visit. England always wanted him to look tidy and had given him a suit and a dressing-table, and hell, America was totally excited, too.

It had been years since America had last seen him; England had won America over and then disappeared for long stretches of time. Oh, America heard from England lots — every time an East Indiaman landed with tea or when England’s colonial governors sent him news from Parliament or His Majesty. But the only times England himself came to visit were when there was another stupid war in Europe that bled over into North America. Then he’d show up with new treaties and territory lines for America to protect and a list of people for America to _nevah, evah_ talk to. Usually that meant France.

This time, though, the war had sort of started here.

Once America thought he looked presentable enough, he went outside. He hooked his thumbs into the waist of his trousers and strolled at an easy pace towards the harbor, though the collected emotion was so high he could barely walk straight. His people were excited and scared and giddy and so many things, and he felt everything — like he was every person in the world, shoved into a human body that could barely contain it all. And everyone, including him, was excited to see England.

Thus America was in the front of the crowd at the pier and was first to reach down into the first ship’s boat to grab England’s hand and pull him up to stand on the dock. His hand was warm, like a human’s.

“Greetings, boy,” England said, not quite smiling, and America grinned back.

“Hi, England!” he said, and smiled some more, unable at the moment to think of anything else to say. England’s eyes were green and he was wearing a red Marine’s uniform. He was one of _them,_ and America had missed him terribly.

All around them the human tide thronged and ebbed as more Marines and sailors disembarked and were greeted by their American brothers and sisters. England waved the back of his palm at America.

“Move along, then,” he said with an eyebrow scowl, and America moved along. Like they’d never been there, they escaped the crowds and made their way to America’s house.

“So it’s war,” America said as they walked. He yanked his thumbs out of his trousers when England’s eyebrows formed a grumpy, deep _vee_ in the direction of America’s crotch. “You totally declared war on France. And France wants the west, too, so he declared war back. Everybody wants me. Ha ha!”

“It’s not all about you, you know,” England told him. “All of Europe are at it again. They’ve all shuffled boundaries and alliances, and they’re all clutching at everything they can get on the continent. The bastards.”

“We appreciate the assist, anyway. The troops.”

“You‘re bloody expensive, you know that? We still have a national debt from trying to help that damned useless Austria.”

“We’ll help. We’ve been helping. Our militias—”

“Your militias don’t even have uniforms.” England stopped and looked America up and down. They’d reached his house, a little white-washed Cape Cod on the edge of town, still on cobbled streets but close enough to the farms to smell them. “I should have brought Prussia with me. He’d certainly help me whip you bunch of colonial farmers into shape.”

“No way. Prussia’s an asshole, England.”

England sighed and looked down the street, still talking as if he hadn’t heard America. “You’re still a child, however. You’ll learn.”

 _I’m bigger than you, jerk_ , America wanted to say, but because he loved England, he didn’t. England already knew that America was bigger and was kind of sensitive about it. His jaw had dropped all the way to the floor last time he’d visited and seen how America had grown, _ha ha._

And America could only grow larger. He already felt as if he could stretch his arms from the Atlantic Ocean to the Mississippi, could touch Canada with his head and plant his feet in New Orleans. Did that make his feet French? Whatever the case, he wasn’t a child, and he wished that England would just see that, already.

“Not true, England! We’re learning,” he said aloud, grinning again. He let England into his house and waited while England looked around and sniffed in that fun sort of hoity-toity way he had. “We’re loyal, and we’re crafty, and we know the land. We’ll help.”

As if he was mildly satisfied with what he’d seen of America’s house, England sniffed again and looked at him. Then he smiled, mouth all stretched and eyes all scrunched, and America’s stomach fluttered like it had hummingbird wings. His knees itched. Funny things happened to his human body when England smiled like that.

“Expensive or not, remind me to thank your Major Washington for that little fiasco at Great Meadows. I’m very much looking forward to punching France in the face again,” England said.

“Me too,” America said, and apologized silently to his feet.

  
 ************

Major George Washington sort of started the actual war by attacking the French at Jumonville Glen in 1754. He won that battle but ended up surrendering to the French not long after and then had to defend his actions to the big-wigs.

 ************

  
 _August 1756_

“Bloody France. Bloody fucking France and his fucking Indians,” England moaned. He sat with a heavy-sounding thump on the log next to America.

England was in his shirtsleeves; he’d lost his uniform coat and boots to the angry Indians. America didn’t even have his shirt — only his pants and shoes — and was thankful that it was summer. They sat in a sun-dappled clearing, having left the sad ruins of Fort William Henry a mile through the forest behind them.

“At least we have our scalps,” America pointed out.

“What a fine time we’d have of it without them,” England spat, swiping his grimy hand over the top of his head. As blond as England was, the blood and mud and other things matting his hair really showed, America thought.

America realized that his hands were shaking. He clenched his fingers between his knees to still them, or warm them, or something. Anything. He could taste gunpowder smoke on his teeth.

The forest was quiet except for his and England’s breathing, and they were safe for the moment. Many of their people hadn’t been so lucky, however. They’d been speared like fish in Lake George. They’d died moaning and festering from injuries inflicted by rifle-fire. Some of them had been killed by their own exploding cannons, the artillery iron worn down by constant, ineffective firing at the French.

“I think I really hate this war,” America said.

England looked at him for a few long moments. He raised his hand, lowered it, then finally raised it again and patted America on the bare skin of his shoulder. His eyes were half-closed and gentle-looking.

“It’s a nasty business, lad. But a necessity in this world. You’ll get used to it.”

America didn’t answer, though England’s touch had helped. He took a deep breath, then released it in a long sigh. He didn’t want to get used to war. He wanted to go back to farming. Perhaps he’d learn to make stuff.

England was still talking. “Especially with bastards like that fucking France in this world. Worry not, however; we’ll get him. And his Indian allies.”

America shook his head and spoke without thinking. “I don’t really hate them.”

England stared at him as if he’d grown a third eyeball, and America quickly raised his palms in the air between them. “I mean — I do want France to stop telling me where I can and can’t go. But he did offer us really fair surrender terms for Fort W-H. Whaddya call ‘em — the honors of war? It’s just … the Indians are very angry, I think.”

England stared at America for a second or two more, then stretched out one of his legs and pointed to his bootless foot. His buff knee-breeches were covered in blood and mud to match his hair.

“Well, if that-bastard-France hadn’t lied to his own allies, then perhaps they’d be less angry.”

America nodded. From what they could tell, the Indians helping France had been promised a share of the booty from the attack on the fort as well as captives. And revenge. But France had instead offered the British the chance to leave with all their stuff, thus denying his own allies even as he treated his enemies with honor. The Indians thought the Europeans were all either nuts or in cahoots or both, and America couldn’t really blame them.

“So many people to fight,” he said aloud. _So many people to please._ America hoped that someday he’d be able to make his own choices regarding who to do _which_ to. He could be all of them, perhaps. Hell, he could speak English, French, Dutch, Spanish — even some Algonquian and Cherokee …

First, though, they had to get through this. To win. He was British, first and foremost, by right of law. He needed to earn the right to be an equal partner.

“Fucking incompetents,” England was muttering. When America opened his mouth, England added, “Not you. Not just— Well. Our provincial militias did their part with very little training, I must say.”

America gaped. England had said _our,_ and he’d been almost … complimentary. About the colonial soldiers.

“They totally did, didn’t they?” America crowed. He fisted his hands at his hips, and maybe he thrust out his chest a little. Maybe he thrust it out a lot.

England’s lip quirked the tiniest bit. Then he glanced down at America’s chest, all puffed out like a rooster’s, and his eyebrows drew down. It was a _look,_ a weirdly intent look. His cheeks seemed pinker than they had before. Well, it was a warm day, America thought. Even this far north in New York, August was a very warm month. Very warm indeed. America stared at England, staring back at him. Then England looked away.

“Yes, yes. Well,” he said in a gruff tone. “I meant to say that Monro should never have been given charge of that fort. He wasted all the months he could have spent rebuilding his defenses merely waiting for reinforcements from Fort Edward.”

America shrugged. He was still very warm. “Maybe he thought France wouldn’t bother? I’m not sure why he did. He’ll have to leave soon, anyway, right? We have reinforcements and new commanders coming. Lots.”

“Ah! You are correct. You’ve read the dispatches, have you?” England looked at him again and smiled a little again, though he would only look at America’s face. “I’m pleased. Surprised and unnerved, perhaps, but pleased.”

America resisted the urge to tell England to drop dead, or to thrust his own bosom out again. But he still felt happier than he had in days. He was smarter than people realized.

England stood. He brushed at his remaining clothes as if it would actually help get the muck off — which it didn’t — and looked south, in the direction of Fort Edward and lands behind British lines. “I feel more confident leaving you to it, at the very least. I must away to the continent.”

America jumped to his feet as well. “What? This is a continent, you know. The war is here.”

“It is also in Europe and India. I have many concerns, America.”

“You’re abandoning me again.” America chafed his upper arms with his hands. A breeze had kicked up and the shade had gotten chilly.

“What? You’re an— well, you’ll be fine until I return. You already managed to grow into a bloody behemoth while I was off fighting for Austrian succession, did you not?”

“Whatever,” America said. He started walking down the trail in the opposite direction from Fort Edward. He brushed past England on the way. See if he’d even offer England his shoes — _nuh-uh, no way, screw him_. “I know you have important things to do.”

England yelled after him. “Dolt! Colonies are all bloody important! If you’ve read the dispatches, then you know that Mister Pitt has offered to pay the costs of war in North America. Use the money well! Buy your men some fucking proper uniforms, will you?”

“Right. Bye,” America said, waving behind him. He’d just have to work harder to earn his partnership. And, well — he did need clothes, it was true.

  
 ************

Note: Fort William Henry was a loss for the British, though they got it back really quickly when France took off north to reinforce Canada. And the Indians suffered terribly for helping the French in these battles; they were hit hard by smallpox.

 ************

  
 _April 1759_

England had returned once more. America would see him that very evening, in fact, as England sailed into Halifax Harbor with the admirals who were meeting with the generals to plan a siege on Quebec. America counted the passing seconds in his head, even as he took twice as long as usual to dress, making his every movement as slow and deliberate as possible.

He’d totally fumed for weeks after England had left. He wasn’t completely sure why since he’d discovered that he did just fine without England’s physical presence. Even in this war he’d taken perfectly good care of himself. He’d had the help of British troops and Mister Prime Minister Pitt’s money, of course, but he’d made his own Indian allies, among them the powerful Iroquois. He’d raised more provincial militias and outfitted them. They’d had military successes, taking forts all along the St. Lawrence river into Canada — and boy, had Canada been pissed. He and France had blown up half the forts first, just so the British would get nothing good outta them.

It was just — he’d thought, maybe — if England couldn’t see him, then he couldn’t see how awesome America was becoming, could he?

America had even ordered uniforms for himself using Britain’s money. Regular old suits he didn’t give a crap about, but he could see how military uniforms were different: they served a purpose. They showed that you had purpose.

Different occasions called for different uniforms. America wore the blue coat with red lining when he was marching or camping with the Virginia militias. He wore his green coat and brown buckskins when he was hanging with the rangers. For the upcoming meeting, he was going to wear the uniform that belonged with the First Royal Regiment of Foot, the one that was all patriotic with its red coat and blue facing and white lace.

Throw in white breeches and white under-everything for marching in the mud — the uniforms looked great, but didn’t make much sense. Still, America was oddly proud of his knee-breeches, so perfectly tailored they looked like they’d been sewed onto him. Surely England would find no fault with those! He held his white gaiters and neck-stock up in the weak light coming through the tent-flap, looking to be sure they were pristine.

Once he had white-under-everything on, he unfolded his red wool waistcoat. It was nice and warm for cool April days in Canada, and he had to admit he liked the style with its silver-embroidered tails that ended at mid-thigh. His guys had promised him that it was the very latest thing, replacing the older waistcoats that hung to the knees. Maybe England would be impressed by that, too.

“Don’t know why I care what the ol’ jerk thinks about how I look,” America said to himself as he slipped his arms into the matching coat. It was heavy, with all its red wool outside and blue wool inside and silver frogging and buttons. Heavy and purposeful.

He didn’t have a looking-glass in his tent, so he couldn’t give himself the once-over. But he thought he’d cocked his tricorne just right, and hung his hanger-hanging-sword just right, and—

“I totally don’t care,” he said, more loudly.

“He in there?” a voice filtered through from the outside. It was England.

“Fuck!” America said, then covered his mouth. How the Puritans and Quakers would cringe to hear him say that aloud!

England was none too happy about it, either. He pushed into the tent, yanking off his tricorne and looking at America with a tooth-baring grin that went up and eyebrows that went down.

“Is that to be my greeting, America?”

“What are you talking about? Hi, England,” America said. He buckled his shoes and stood, smiling his realest smile. It wasn’t difficult, because he was, to his secret mortification, amazingly happy to see England. To stop his arms from trying to hug anyone he brushed his palms over the blue turn-ups at the hem of his jacket, checking to see that he’d buttoned them correctly.

Then America suffered an acute few seconds as his heart thumped hard twice— maybe three times— against his breastbone, so hard he could feel it all the way from his throat to his stomach. He watched as England’s badger-grin faded and his eyes widened the tiniest bit and he stared at America with That Look, the intent one that made America’s belly feel all warm and twitchy. That was he’d missed so very much without realizing it— the tiny moments when England saw him, really saw him. “When America thought he might have actually affected England in some way.

“I didn’t powder my hair,” America said, too stupid to say anything else.

“Waste of time,” England mumbled. He glanced away and brushed at his own damp hair with his free hand. When he turned his gaze back to America, he looked more like his old self: haughty, evasive. America felt his heart slow and instantly missed that feeling of physical panic, of awareness in every limb. His human body was becoming greedy for things that he couldn’t have and probably weren’t right to want in the first place.

“What you do you think?” America finally said, waving his coat lapels at England. “Do I look like a proper British officer?”

“You look very fine,” England said, not even looking at him. He was examining his own hat in his hands, the inside of the tent canvas— anything but America. “Are you joining me aboard _Sutherland_ or not?”

“Duh,” America said. He let go his lapels and waved at the tent-flap.

As they walked to the boats that would row them out to the _Sutherland_ — at anchor in the harbor — America checked England out. He was pale, but that was nothing new. His red waistcoat was short, the same length as America’s. His breeches and gaiters were too loose, however. America wondered if he should worry, wondered what England’s body looked like under them. Would he be too thin? Was he bruised? Or was he merely worn lean and tight by fighting?

And then America realized that he’d been thinking about England naked. His face felt like it’d caught fire. So. There was that, too.

America knew what people — humans — did when they were naked. What he didn’t know for sure was whether they did it, too. France had seriously groped him a couple of times and had whispered some very shocking and exciting-sounding things, so America supposed that some of them must.

But England? Stuffy, funny old England?

Then they were at the boats and America had to stop thinking about it. England was back to normal, fussing and griping and ordering people about.

It took longer to row out to the flagship and back than it had taken for them to meet the military heads. What was important was that they’d been there; this was history-making stuff for sure.

Within a few hours he and England were alone again. America’s tent had been set up for their dinner, with several whale-oil lanterns for light, and someone had supplied red wine. Lots of it.

England poured full glasses of wine for both of them. He took a healthy gulp from his glass and then sighed, like he’d been parched for booze. America just sipped at his. It was dry and rich-tasting. He’d gotten used to the crisp beer brewed in Philly and Boston.

With a _tap, tap_ of his fingernail on the edge of his glass, England sank down a little in his camp-chair and sort of smiled. He pretty much ignored his food.

“So my troops have done very well in my absence,” he said.

“Yeah, we did just fine. Pretty awesome, in fact,” America said, smiling back, a little ashamed to be looking for praise.

But England just took another gulp of wine like he hadn’t heard. “It’s a relief to be across the Atlantic, frankly. Europe is fucked. Prussia blathered constantly about how he was going to punish France, but he can barely hold onto Silesia. At least we’ve managed to reassert British rights to trade in Africa and India.”

“And then Canada,” America said, taking a bite of his pheasant. He thought about his men, surviving on salt pork and rum like England’s regulars.

“And then Canada,” England agreed. He tipped his wine glass at America, then drained it. His pale cheeks were tinged with color, visible even in the shifting, scarce lamplight. “Things will be different in Canada, lad. Government-wise, that is.”

To forestall any of the expected complaining about American assemblies and the assertive independence of England’s American colonists — he’d heard plenty about that already in England’s letters — America smiled in what he thought was an eager way. “We still have to fight Quebec first, ha ha. We’ll all be doing drills for a while. They said they wanted all the men to learn how to climb up and down the ships, right? Over and over and over and over—”

England snorted. “Someone has to teach the farmers how to make war.”

“We’ve learned pretty well, thanks,” America sighed. He loved England lots, but he was getting tired of being … put in his place, he supposed it was. He wanted acknowledgement. He wanted to be the thing that mattered most, more than punching France and getting trade-rights. He wanted England to touch him with his warm hands and smile at him. He wanted to be an equal. _Nothing like wishing for the moon._

England poured more wine for himself. The bottle in his hand hovered across the table but jerked short when he saw how little America had been drinking.

America picked up his wine and swirled it in the glass for a few seconds. “Remember when you tried to teach me how to knit?”

That cracked a grin out of England. “Oh, Lord. A wasted enterprise.”

“I know, right?” America sipped his wine to make England even more happy. He sipped a little too much and felt the alcohol fumes trickle up his nose to numb his brain. “France offered to show me how to trap fur, you know. I don’t think he was always talking about beaver. Or maybe he was. I dunno.”

“What?” England pointed at him so violently with his half-full glass that wine sloshed out and onto America’s pheasant. “You tell that fucking France to keep his lessons to himself! You don’t need to learn anything from him.”

“France offered to teach me lots of things,” America said, deliberately wide-eyed. “I told him no, of course!”

England gaped at him with his mouth open.

“There’s more stuff you could teach me, I guess,” America said, trying to cajole the stunned expression off of England’s face.

England picked up his jaw and used it to take another sip of wine. “Hrm. What do you want to learn, America?” His voice was slow and cautious-sounding.

 _Oh, stuff the strict religious types don’t want me to know or want anybody to do, really. What it feels like to have someone else to rub the hard and ache-y parts of my body all over, instead of just my hand. You’re the being I care about most out of the whole wide world, so maybe you could show me these things._

“I dunno,” America said aloud, willing himself to say more and failing miserably.

England stared at him in silence, his eyes narrowed as if his eyebrows were pushing his lids to half-mast. His cheeks were pink and his nose was pink, and they just got redder the more wine he drank, as if the wine were blood, suffusing him with life. America watched, fascinated.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” England said after a while. His voice was low.

“Like what?”

“You’re so very bold, America. You should behave more like … like …”

America wished he were a little bolder, actually. “Like Canada?”

“Yes! Exactly bloody right. Like Canada.” England drained what was left of his wine and poured more. That time he added to America’s glass as well. “He has this downcast eyes sort of thing. Very servile.”

“That’s because Canada has no rights,” America scoffed. He took another decent-sized sip of wine. It got easier to swallow the more he drank. “I have the rights of a British citizen.”

“Hmm. Damned expensive citizen,” England mumbled.

America stayed silent for a bit and thought. It was a little difficult, what with all the brain-numbness creeping up on him. He couldn’t believe that was what England wanted. Downcast eyes? Servility? There was being put in his place, and then there was being … being …

 _Accommodating?_ Maybe England actually liked that sort of thing. America decided to try doing it, to try lowering his eyes. They fell on his food. He realized that probably needed to eat because of the booze. He took a bite of wine-soaked pheasant. He could feel England watching him.

“Your uniform fits you very well,” he heard England say.

“Thanks, England!” Screw being servile; America jumped to his feet and lifted his coat- and waistcoat-tails to show off his breeches. “Look at these! I thought you’d like ‘em.”

“Now why would you think that?” England said in his low voice again, crossing his arms and looking away.

“Because you like that kind of thing.”

If it was possible for England’s face to get any redder, then it did. He jumped to his feet as well and grabbed his tricorne from its hanging-hook. “I’d better get back to my cabin aboard the _Hawk_. As you noted, we have many drills on the morrow.”

America dropped his coat-tails. “But you haven’t eaten anything yet!”

“Nevertheless.” England stepped forward, his head down.

America was blocking the tent-flap exit. Instead of being nice and servile like he’d promised himself to try, he didn’t move out the way, just stared at England. Stared down, at the top of England’s head. “I’m glad you’re back,” he said, wishing he hadn’t but deciding he could blame it on the wine.

England’s shoulders slumped a little, but after a second or two he straightened and looked America in the eye. Then he looked up. Then he reached out and touched a lock of America’s hair.

“You always have this … this unruly bit, here,” England said. He was so close that America could smell the wine on his breath. His body felt pulled tight over every inch of his skin, like all of him was tense, waiting, hot. He touched the silver trim on England’s jacket cuff, then started to run his fingers over the wool of his sleeve—

“Good night, America,” England said, and America stumbled as he was summarily pushed out of the way. Soon England was gone, into the fog of a Halifax evening.

***** _September, 1760_

“Come now, England. You are gaining all of North America except for New Orleans. Allow us the honneur de guerre, at least. Let us carry our colors and arms as we take our leave of you.”

As he spoke, France looked tired to America’s eyes, a little scuffed and bruised. Still, he was _France_ , and somehow he managed to be more perfectly tailored and elegant than anyone else in the room, even as he begged for better surrender terms.

Canada, like America, hung back and watched the proceedings, powerless to do anything to change them or even to speak, really. The imperial powers were in charge here, no doubt about it. America was a little stunned, anyway; it had been an entire year since the bloody battle at Quebec, and he could hardly believe his own war was nearly over. Or that he and England were to take Montreal so easily.

“Not a chance, Frog,” England said with his most eye-narrowed grin. “You’re lucky we agreed to let you leave at all and don’t simply blow you into tiny bits. You’re the ones who incited the Indians to savagery—”

“You British are just as savage. Even more so,” France said, visibly angry. “We offered them friendship. You offer them cheap goods and annihilation by smallpox.”

“It’s you French who are poxed, you— you— poxy—”

The meeting was going similarly to the one they’d had with all the generals earlier, and America wondered why France had bothered to push for honors. England had an overwhelming advantage. And he was _pissed._ Being right wasn’t going to help France at all.

“The Canadian Iroquois has requested a peace meeting with William Johnson,” Canada murmured into the brief silence.

Both France and England — and America, even — stared in shock at Canada. Canada only gave them a vague smile and then bowed his head. He said no more. France bared his teeth and looked gleeful.

“But Cherokee has attacked a fort in the Carolinas,” America tossed in before France could speak. He wasn’t going to be outdone by his brother, nuh-uh, no way.

And he wasn’t sure if he was proving England’s point or what, just stating the obvious because it affected him more than anyone else. Whatever the case, France grabbed onto it. He gave a very Gallic, slant-shouldered shrug and smiled.

“See? We do not control them in the slightest. I will leave you to it.” He then sauntered towards the door.

“Leave your arms and flags,” England warned in a low voice.

“We shall see if the generals choose to,” France laughed.

Canada started to stand up, then sat, then stood up halfway. “Should I—?”

France patted his shoulder. “Not until it is official. Come.” Canada managed to stand and together they started to leave. Just as France opened the door, he turned and winked at America. “When we are no longer at war, come to visit me. We shall discuss Rousseau.”

England flushed red; even his eyebrows were red. “You—! You won’t talk to him about anything, bloody Frog! And we’ll search the luggage of every damned French officer if we have to.”

“You offer me great insult,” France said. Then he waved Canada out and was gone, shutting the door behind him.

England sputtered at the closed door for a few moments, then whipped around to glare at America.

“I’ve fought for years to keep him from your borders — _my_ borders. He is the one who offers me an insult. Fucking France.”

America attempted a small grin. He played with his fingers in his lap, wondering why England was so … jealous. He was totally blind in some ways. It was like all of America’s attempts to show England how much he wanted to remain allied with him just got lost in the fighting.

Or perhaps England had been ignoring them on purpose, like the way he’d avoided sharing winter quarters in Quebec. He still _saw_ America, but not yet as an equal. And as a colony, America could not initiate such … relations. He needed England to show him the way, to let him know unequivocally that it was okay. England would probably never do it, though, and America would remain tense and frustrated forever.

Acting frustrated never worked, so America sighed and leaned his head back against the top of his chair, stretching out his under-everything-white-clad legs. But it’s almost over. We’ve won. You punched him like you wanted, right?”

“That I did.” England crossed his arms and took a deep breath. Like America, he seemed to calm down a bit, or at least his face lost some of its red flush. He did look at America’s long legs all spread out, but like always, he was more concerned with winning. “Though he had better leave his arms.”

 ************

In the end France didn’t. Furthermore, he’d burned his flags so England could not present them to his king. England and his head general, Amherst, had fumed and cursed and threatened, but eventually they’d just let France go. He was gone from Montreal — all of Canada — and that was the important thing.

And Canada was England’s, too, like America. While their people celebrated in the streets, England sequestered himself with Canada for “discussions.”

Thus America didn’t join the party, either. Instead, he went to his assigned quarters and caught up on work. He wrote letters to the Ohio Company and to his assemblies and to his Indian allies — why were they called Indians, anyway? They were nowhere near India, at least America didn’t think so — and he did not think _at all_ about how he’d imagined this day of victory to be completely different from how it was turning out.

America was sucking the matted end of a quill pen, thinking about how to pacify Cherokee, when England entered without knocking. “America.”

“Hullo, England,” America said, and set down his quill. He crossed his fingers on the table and looked up.

England stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. “This is a great day. You are being uncharacteristically subdued, America. Like Canada. He doesn’t seem to care who rules him. He’s not losing any rights, I suppose. Only gaining them.”

“I thought you liked that kind of behavior,” America said.

“Hrm. I suppose,” England murmured. He was silent for a few moments. He brushed at his jacket and tapped his boot on the wooden cabin floor. “Well, I shall … I shall miss you, America. I must take my leave soon.”

America unclenched his fingers and grabbed the edge of the table to squeeze it, hard. “You’re leaving?”

England nodded and swiped his fingers along his red jacket some more. “The Prime Minister has ordered the Navy and Marines o the Indies now that hurricane season is nearing its end, so that we may take some key French islands there. Spain may join the war against me as well. More spoils for the British, eh?” He gave America a tight, thin grin.

“Oh. Okay,” America said, willing himself to release his visible grip on the table and failing.

England stretched out his hands, palms open. “So unenthusiastic! Come, America.”

America stood, slowly. England stepped around the table and clasped America’s shoulders. It was the most England had touched him in months and months and months, and America’s heart stopped, then started, with a painful jerk. England looked him directly in the eye and said in his hearty, German-King-George voice, “Take care, America. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” America whispered. He kept his hands firmly at his sides, trying not to betray anything by the crazy twitching of his fingers.

“Well done,” England said, and kissed America on one cheek, and then the other. He had warm lips and—

 _There_ , it had appeared out of nowhere: England’s move, America’s moment. He grabbed England’s heavy, scratchy, wool- and silver-trim-lapels and shoved his own lips forward against England’s. England’s mouth didn’t move but America didn’t care; he kissed him as fervently, as passionately as he could, trying to make sure England could not possibly misunderstand him.

After a few heavy moments England shoved at America’s shoulders, forcing him away.

“Good God! What are you doing?” England gasped. He was frowning and his eyes were wide, his pupils flicking back and forth as if searching America’s face for an answer.

“What’s it look like?” America said, rolling his eyes. He didn’t let go of England’s jacket.

England’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened, and eventually settled somewhere in between. “That’s not how you do it,” he said, and leaned forward, pressing his lips softly against America’s. America stood stock-still as England’s fingers squeezed his shoulders the tiniest bit, and England tilted his head, moving his lips slowly and with little sighs. America ventured to open his mouth and felt England slide his tongue between his lips.

America could see the advantage in this, totally, yes, being joined to him so actively and intimately, feeling England’s fingers curl around the back of his head to pull him closer. America slid his hands around England’s back to hold on, because he knew he was trembling like a little kid in the dark.

It was bliss, bliss and then England pulled his tongue out of America’s mouth and bowed his head, hitting America in the chin with his forehead.

“Pardon, America,” he said alongside a hoarse breath. “This is not right.”

“What's wrong?” America said, trying to find England’s mouth with his own lips again.

“Terribly wrong,” England was mumbling. “I can’t deny that … but no. Oh, damnation.”

“What?” America said again. He could feel England’s harsh breaths through his heavy coat, harsh like his own breathing.

England laid his fingers on America’s cheek. “You learn too quickly,” he said, and kissed America again, his hot breath and his tongue and America closed his eyes and settled in for more physical bliss. England did want him, the way he— America _wanted_ to learn, and he tilted his head like England did and glided his tongue inside England’s mouth gently, not harshly, because England wouldn’t let him. He sucked at England’s soft, wet lips like England did his, and showed how good it felt, how much he cared.

After a while England became more forceful, and America let him because it felt even better. He stumbled back a step or two and felt his ass hit the edge of the table. So he leaned on it, and then there was the hard table on one side and England on the other and America, sandwiched between them, was made of one acute nerve dying for more touch, especially down _there._ America clenched his thighs around one of England’s legs, arching his hips back and forth, rubbing his ache-iest spots until the tightness in his crotch only grew worse. England was hard, too, like he was — America could feel it on his knee—

“Ouch! Slow down,” England said and pulled away again. America moaned, though he was held still by the look in England’s eyes, so green and close they could not possibly miss him. England’s voice was just as low and intent as his gaze. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“I think so, ha ha. Yeah.” America licked his lips. “Well, maybe not. Please?”

England took a deep breath, more steady than his last few had been. “For me to show you would be to take unconscionable advantage, you know.”

America panicked. He could feel England’s hold on him and around him loosening. “Someone has to! Maybe I’ll just take France up—”

“Fuck France,” England said in an angry voice, and then he was pulling at the buttons on America’s white shirt, and America didn’t waste time complimenting himself on his own cleverness, just shrugged off his red coat — not easy because he was partially sitting on it. England yanked America’s shirt open, then used it to pull him forward off the table.

“Turn around, America,” he said in a low voice, a voice that was not to be disobeyed. America did as he was asked. It was okay because England pressed up along the backside of him and wrapped his arms around him and touched him where his shirt was open, warm hands stroking down his breastbone and touching the sensitive skin of his armpits and along his sides.

“Good Lord,” England whispered against the back of his neck. His voice was hot enough to send chills trembling down America’s spine. Something soft and wet drew along his nape and he realized that England was licking him. His belly was molten and he lost such control of his knees that England had to hold him up. When America was steady again, he saw England’s fingers at the top of his trousers, loosening the knotted strands and buttons that fastened them.

“God, please,” America sighed, not caring what the Puritans would think, only that England’s hand had slid into his drawers and around his cock, squeezing, squeezing the life out of him. “Oh! Oh.”

“Shh,” England murmured into America’s hair. “Do you understand what this entails? What you want?”

“S— sort of. I don’t care. I love you,” America said all at once.

“Oh.” England’s body twitched all over against America’s back. “My dear America.”

After a couple more heavenly physical strokes, England released America’s cock and, indeed, released all of him, stepping back. America moaned, ashamed but aroused so that all he could think was, _warm skin on mine, forever and ever_. He heard the rustling of clothing that was not his, and England muttering, “damn and blast, where is the— oh, there. This should do.”

“What? Ha ha,” America said, even though he was hot and cold and half-naked and leaning against the table, because it sounded so … England.

“Calves’ foot jelly. You will thank me.”

“Calves’— what, does your throat hurt, or something?”

“Always. It’s demned dry here,” England said. “Hold still.”

“Okay.” England’s hands were on him again, on his hips, sliding his breeches down and then sliding something wet and cool into the crack of his ass. America had never realized how sensitive that spot was until England touched it.

“Oh, oh,” America said. His heart pounded and he wasn’t sure if he was afraid or excited, or both.

England chuckled against the back of America’s head, and America felt something — England’s fingers? — nudging inside him. It was weird and yet so intimate; good thing it was England and not anybody else.

“Lean forward and hold onto the table,” England told him.

“Yes, sir,” America said, trying to sound jaunty, but ashamed at the shakiness in his voice. It was all right, though, because England’s warm skin was pressed against him, soft and yet hard, because England’s cock was hard like his. America felt it when England’s fingers spread his buttocks and pushed his cock inside him.

“Ah—” America said, almost coughing. “That’s— _man._ ”

“Relax. Shh,” England whispered. His fingers trailed up and down America’s hips, distracting him with their fine attention. England pushed into America and pulled his hips back at the same time until America was full, like he had to _go_ , but it wasn’t really unpleasant. It just made him catch his breath until his head spun like he had air bubbles in his brain-box.

Then England moved inside him, rocking back and forth, whispering “dear America, dear boy” between harsh breaths. It hurt a little, burned like nothing he’d ever felt. America watched his own sweat drip to darken the wood of the table in little specks. It hurt but he loved the feeling of England pressed against him and in him and his hands, one guiding America’s hips and the other stroking his belly, the liquid knot of ache inside him. After a while England’s driving thrusts touched, pounded the ache, and America knew—

“This is what I— Oh, oh,” America said.

At the same time England whispered back, “No one’s ever—”

And America knew then that they were both stupid. So much alike — but oh, dear, he was much stupider, because England was stroking his cock, now hard again, and America’s human body couldn’t stand all the breathing, the closeness and sensation, everything. It jerked him all at once over the edge before he could stop it. He made a stupid noise and spilled his seed, all over England’s hand and the table.

“S’allright. Hold on,” England told him.

America’s body went limp but England only held him more tightly, rocked against and inside him for a while longer before coming to a jerky, huffing halt.

America felt England flop forward onto him, and he sort of slid down to hug the table. He was sore and breathless, but happy. Surely this hadn’t happened and England was leaving— But England was there, more physical and real than America had ever felt him. England was, in fact, muttering against America’s sweaty shirt.

“Oh, lord. I make a terrible b— big b— empire. How are you, America? How was it?” England’s voice trailed up at the end, making him sound more unsure than America had ever heard him sound before.

“Oh, good,” America breathed. He relaxed and thought for a few more seconds, drooling into the table. “Good. Except—”

“Except?” England’s voice had regained its suspicious edge. “Except what?”

“Except, I couldn’t see what you were doing.”

England pushed himself off America, then grabbed America’s neck-stock and hoisted him upwards. America stood and turned. Instead of looking England in the eye, he looked down between them. He was all sticky and gooey and limp, and so was England. America stared down at England’s cock, his blond hair, spellbound.

England put a finger under America’s chin to clap his jaw shut and bring his gaze back up to England eye-level. It wasn’t a bad view, either: England was all pink and shiny and his hair— even his hair was all messed up. He raised an eyebrow at America’s stare. “You want to see what I’m doing.”

“Yeah. How else am I supposed to—?” America whispered, unable to even bring up teaching or France again. Not after _that._ He braced his hands back against the table.

“You are much too clever, America,” England sighed, rolling his eyes. He didn’t look angry, though, just sort of flushed and exasperated. “Very well.” He reached up and began to slide America’s wet, sticky shirt off his shoulders, wearing a half grin as he did it.

“Huzzah,” America cheered, but quietly.

  
 ************

  
England could be so … so imperious, sometimes. And cranky and fussy. But he had a whole ‘nother side to him, one that would sometimes break out in a fond smile, especially when he thought America wasn’t looking. It was the same one that always remembered, when he visited, to bring good presents alongside the icky presents.

Even at that moment England groused as he attempted to remove America’s fine linen shirt, because it kept catching on things like America’s elbows or the heels of his palms. Yet there were also England’s fingers, soft and slow as they traced America’s collarbone and caressed the sensitive undersides of his wrists.

America’s senses in those moments became fine-tuned to capture everything — to understand them — because every second that ticked by brought him one second closer to when England would leave him. Every hair on England’s head was distinct, his every touch seemed to show hesitation and decision

England glanced up and caught America staring, and his eyes went a little wide. Instead of griping, however, he just kissed America until he was stupid again.

By this time America hoped he’d gotten the kissing part right. Hhe had, if he could judge by the way England closed his eyes and made small _mmm_ ing noises of approval that America could feel through his lips. They went straight through him and down, down, to make his belly tighten and tremble.

Every day, America felt things for thousands of people. It was thrilling to feel and see such things for himself, in his own skin, hot and grunting and sweaty.

Somewhere in his haze of sensation, he realized that England had stopped and was looking at him.

“I recall that you said you wanted to watch, America. But it’s disconcerting having you stare at me so.”

“Oh,” America said. It was hard to think straight. “You want, uh, downcast eyes or something?”

England’s fingers gently pressed America’s eyelids shut. “No. You may close them.”

“Oh,” America said again.

Even without watching America missed nothing. He could still feel England’s coat under his fingers, his breath in his mouth, his fingers outlining the edges of his face and winding into his hair — probably playing with that stray curl that refused to lie flat, no matter how much America pomaded it.

“Did I hear something about how you felt about me?” England murmured against America’s lips.

“Um. Maybe,” America mumbled back. To his shame, his cheeks heated at being asked so directly.

“Hmmm,” England said, and then he did that thing with his mouth where he bent his head and pressed close, taking deep breaths, like he was sucking America’s tongue. America tried not to breathe, tried not to break the perfect rush of blood through his heart and down to his toes and back up to his stomach—

“Good God,” England was bitching. He’d stopped and pulled away again.

“What now?” America moaned, his eyes still shut.

“Youth,” England said. America felt a touch on his erection, all hard and achey and trembly between them. America couldn’t resist opening his eyes at that, but England’s gaze was focused off somewhere past America’s shoulder. It was like he was looking at something on the wall, or perhaps through it. “I’d forgotten that was possible.”

“What?” America repeated, feeling stupider than ever. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Never you mind,” England said. His lips formed a small smile as he continued to stare over America’s shoulder, then turned down in a tiny frown. He shook his head, then hiked his breeches loosely up over his hips — why he bothered to do that, America did not know — then wriggled out of America’s full-body hold. He knelt and began to unbuckle America’s shoes. He spoke to the floor — or America’s feet — in a low voice.

“I do feel as if this is … I’d have never expected to …” He trailed off without finishing either sentence.

“What? Why don’t you just tell me?” America said. He pulled at the scratchy wool and silver trim on the shoulders of England’s coat.

Thus it was England’s turn to be put on the spot. It might have been America’s imagination, but it seemed England’s scalp reddened beneath his fair hair. When he stood, however, he seemed unfazed. His eyes were half-closed — a very tender look that sort of melted America’s leg bones.

“It doesn’t need to be said,” England told him. “Here. I shall show you something.”

“Huh?”

But England was running his hands up and down America’s sides, tracing his ribs, his nipples, and he kissed the tip of America’s nose, his lips, his chin, his Adam’s apple. Then he seemed to bend his knees or something, kneeling until his face was— _”Oh, God.”_ America realized belatedly that he’d said that last aloud.

“Still yourself, lad,” England said.

There was no way America could possibly be still, not when England’s breath was on his cock, then — _hell_ — his lips. One of America’s legs kicked as if in reflex. His unbuckled right shoe went flying.

“Don’t brain me with those, mind,” England whispered against America’s cock. He put his lips around it and pulled them off with a small smacking noise. America had never seen — felt — heard — _dreamed_ , even, of anything so erotic.

“Uh,” America said.

England shouldn’t be doing that, he thought. It wasn’t that it was wrong because he was England’s dominion, or maybe it was, because England should not be the one on his knees in front of America, or something. It was all very confusing and incredible — such soft, wet touches on his flesh, so different from the hot roughness of England’s hand earlier.

“Hold the table again, if you must hold something,” England said in a very calm voice. America released the mixture of wool coat and blond hair that he’d been grasping with desperate hands. Then England nodded and looked very sly indeed as he thumbed back the skin on America’s cock and swirled his tongue around its exposed end.

“Oh, oh,” America said. That table was becoming his very best friend. He marveled to think he’d only planned to use it to write letters. He realized that his mind was going. Where, he did not know.

It was just, England’s mouth and tongue were moving and his fingers were doing this amazing rubbing thing and America’s whole world suddenly centered on his prick. The clarity of moment he’d experienced earlier had evaporated, and his human body was under less than his own control. England had to hold his hips steady with one hand, his thumb pressed into America’s belly, and air caught in America’s throat because he’d forgotten how to breathe.

That perfect tension grew in his muscles, his testicles, that could only build and build and then catch—

“Ah! Oh,” America cried, and climaxed again, _inside England’s mouth._ It was too- it was too—

England stood. America could dimly see that his eyes were a bit pink and watery.

“Feel good?” England said, then pulled America to him with a rough jerk and kissed him again. And America knew that the extra taste in England’s mouth was his own spend and it was all quite incredibly filthy. He’d never be able to look a Congregationalist in the eye again.

Still, he had something — a nice, filthy memory to keep him warm during the long New York winter nights when England wasn’t there. He wanted to share his joy.

“Can I do that to you?” America whispered to England’s lips.

England shut his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “No,” he finally said. “It’s already— No. Does your bed have clean linens?”

“Huh? Yeah. The steward was in here earlier—”

“Good,” England said. He kicked America’s breeches down the rest of the way to the floor with a still-booted foot between America’s legs and kicked them aside. He seemed a little rushed, all of a sudden. “Let us take this there, then.”

“There’s more?” America said.

“For me there is. And with your ridiculously healthy constitution, probably you as well,” England told him. He shrugged out of his red coat. In contrast to how he’d treated America’s clothing, he hung it on a chair. Then he grabbed America’s hand and pulled him over to the little straw mattress bed in the corner.

America shivered a little, naked as he was except for his gaiters. England, on the other hand, still wore everything he’d come in wearing except his coat, though he seemed in a hurry to change that. America started unbuttoning things, wanting to participate in the ritual of reducing England to skin.

It was funny: when he wasn’t ordering people around or shooting things, England didn’t look that much older than America. He was thinner, but then he‘d said that Mister Pitt had spent him into a deficit. His cock looked comparable to America’s, at least. It was hard to judge, though, with America’s all limp and spent—

“You will wither me with your scrutiny,” England said with a sigh in his voice.

Somehow America doubted that — England looked pretty stiff. Something clomped to the floor and America bent to retrieve it. It was England’s little jar, the calves-foot stuff.

“Don’t people eat this?” he asked, holding it up and examining it. England snatched it from his hand.

“Pray you never need to,” England told him. Then he gave America a shove that sent him onto the bed. England followed soon after. “Since you want so badly to learn, I’ll tell you. I’m using it to ease the way for you.”

“Um. Thanks,” America said, feeling the sharpness in every moment again as England pressed him flat on his back then hovered over him, stroking the gleaming stuff over his own erection. The remnants of daylight filtering through the window curtains picked out the planes of England’s face and his partially opened lips as they descended to place a light kiss onto America’s forehead.

“I’m going to fuck you properly then, America,” he said, then coughed brokenly, like a cut-off laugh. “There’s a horrible pun in there, somewhere. I know it.”

America stared at the ceiling and thought. He lifted his legs the way England wanted, at last settling them atop England’s shoulders, and thought some more. “Oh! Ha ha, I get it n—”

“Shh,” England said and pressed forward, guiding his cock between America’s legs, nudging him open with gentle, pushing fingers. “You should have no doubts about what I am doing, now.”

“Nope,” America choked out. The second time he was less sore; he must have been more stretched, or relaxed. The important thing was that England was inside him, _looking_ at him, and he could never be closer than that. America’s chest tightened, like his heart had been compressed. Rough and heart-squeezing—

“I do love you,” he said, unable to control his mouth. His eyes stung and watered at the fullness of his body. “I’m so glad it was you. That we won. That I’m important.”

“You are, you are,” England whispered back. He bit his lower lip as he rocked his hips, starting to move like he had before, but so much better, so much closer. After a while he clenched one of America’s buttocks and moved even faster.

Eventually America caught the rhythm. He leveraged his thighs to push back into England’s thrusts, to push him deeper. He breathed in time with England’s gasps, fancying that even his own, mad heartbeat was thumping right with England’s.

England kept moving, America kept moving with him, and he brushed the sweat from England’s temples as England pressed closer, close enough for them to take the same breaths from each other. England couldn’t _not_ see him, now, couldn’t not see what he was, how perfect this was.

“Yes,” America breathed, feeling England’s thrusts as they pressed that dull ache inside him, over and over, sharpening it every second, until he grew hard again.

“Hah. Thought … so,” England gasped between harsh huffs of breath. “You— youth.”

“Oh,” America said, finally getting it, but what the hell was England talking about _youth_ for? He was the one who was going to be hard forever, was going to be fucking America forever, not that America particularly minded. One of his own legs eventually slipped from England’s sweat-slicked shoulder. He just hooked it around England’s back and used it to press even closer, to not lose the rhythmical, pounding stabs of pleasure.

England kissed him, just a whisper of lips at first until he canted America’s ass and could maneuver his face even closer, close enough to lick inside his lips, and America felt drowned in sensation. He was filled with England everywhere and his cock ground between their slick bodies. He felt more than he’d ever imagined possible when he’d dreamed of England touching him.

“Ah!” America cried into England’s mouth. His body arched off the bed as another climax was yanked from him, hard, almost before he’d known it was coming.

England laughed, though his movements became less rhythmic, more staccato. “Don’t know … how you do it,” he said, then ground his nose into America’s cheek, breathing small, tight gasps into his chin. “Unh,” he said at last, and jerked hard into America’s body, once, then twice, then stilled except for his swift breathing.

America was drained, so drained he could barely move, could barely ease his leg off England’s other shoulder. The sheets certainly weren’t clean now, either. He wondered if he should call the steward back and how he would explain things if he did. God, he was tired.

A minute or so later, England took a deep, shuddering breath and shifted himself atop America. He kissed America’s cheek, then drew down to nuzzle his jawline and his earlobe. He sucked at a spot under America’s ear for a bit, until America could feel his own pulse as it thumped, slowing, against England’s lips.

“Damned as I am, I don’t think there’s an inch of you that I don’t want to lick,” England murmured.

America heaved a tired arm around England’s back. “Okay,” he said.

England sighed. “Unfortunately, my time here grows short.”

“You’re still leaving, huh.”

“I shall return, you know, America. I— I said I would miss you, and I will …”

It was more than America had expected to hear twice. He smiled even though England couldn’t see him and tried to rise. England lay like a dead weight, refusing to move.

“In a few moments. Patience,” he said.

They lay in silence, an almost comfortable one. America’s thoughts, however, had already moved ahead. “I’m going back to New York within a day or two, I think. Back to my house. Or maybe I should go to Boston. I hear Boston is hopping these days.”

England _hmph_ ed against America’s neck. “I’m keeping an eye on Boston, you know. It’s full of rabble-rousers and agitators these days."

“They’re just spirited.”

“Well, let us hope their spirit extends to convincing their assembly to be a little more helpful to the Crown.”

And there — they were back to the real world. America hadn’t realized until then how he’d been not living in it for the last hour or so. He pushed himself up to sit, dislodging England that time. He wrapped his arms around his bent knees and regarded England, who was looking up at him.

“You should be proud of the colonial assemblies, like I am. They’re just your people, exercising their rights as British citizens.”

England _hmph_ ed again. He sat up as well, then crawled around America and off the bed. He plucked his breeches from where they hung on the foot of the bed and began to dress. “As British citizens, expect that you shall be asked to help bear the costs of this war. You are shockingly prosperous over here. It shouldn’t hurt, much.”

 _The assemblies will never go for it. Prosperity and freedom is why a lot of them came here._ America couldn’t say it aloud. He wanted his and England’s parting this time to be less acrimonious than the last one.

“Hmm,” is what he did say. As he did it, he thought that perhaps he sounded like England when he was hedging. He didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Regardless, their time together was ending soon: England was a soldier and had learned to dress quickly. He was already wearing his breeches, shirt, and waistcoat. He smiled as he fastened his neck-stock. “Expect that when I return, I will bring orders with me from Parliament for the governors to implement. I do hope I will have your support for this.”

 _Good presents and icky presents._ America suppressed a laugh. There was no way. “Perhaps I could sell my uniform? Now the war’s over, I don’t really need it.”

England’s small smile grew into a toothy grin. “Keep that. Wear it when we meet again. Perhaps I shall remove it from you,” he said, then sighed deeply, staring at or through the wall again for a few moments. “And keep it for when France returns — I expect you know how to deal with him, now. We’re leaving troops, just in case.”

“Oh. Good,” America said. He stood and went over to grab his breeches and put them on. “I don’t think France would be here for … well, war, anyway. He’ll just hang in New Orleans, drinking wine and talking trade, music, and philosophy.”

“Don’t underestimate him. He’s in bed with Spain now.” At America’s look, he flushed, no mean feat when his face was already pretty pink from his exertions. “Not literally, at least — or I don’t want to think about it, if so. All it means to me is that I get to kick Spain’s arse upon the high seas again, too.”

 _In bed with each other._ The phrase had a whole new meaning for America. He wondered if France and Canada— and then he realized he didn’t want to imagine Canada doing _that._ Still, he’d learned that they had a lot of the same needs, did a lot of the same things, as their people. He wondered if the effects went both ways. His people did have a lot of mixed feelings about England, but the majority of them were loyal.

England helped America button his shirt. He was back to being fussy and imperious, but America liked the whole of him, after all.

England held his shoulders and looked at him, a near-replay of their near-parting scene, earlier. This time, America let England kiss his cheeks without molesting him further.

“Good luck,” he said.

“Thank you, America,” England said and grinned so widely that America had a good memory of him before he left.

  
 **END.**

  
 _Thanks so much for reading! Seriously! Comments are loved, and so are concrit and suggestions._

  
Note: The French and Indian War was called The Seven Years War everywhere but North America, I think (not sure what it was called in Canada), and it was really the first world war; it involved most of Europe as well as North America, the West Indies, India, and Africa. It was also sort of a catalyst for all of England’s taxes and land laws, the ones that set off the whole Revolutionary War. (The War for American Independence to y’all across the Atlantic.) The British were trying to pay off the war and set some ground rules for expansion in North America, and even to protect the rights of the Indians.

I know I’ve done a crappy job of showing it, but the role of the Native Americans in the war was huge. There were tribes and nations on both sides of the conflict. And of course, they lost the most out of everyone, eventually. I don’t really footnote very well, but if something needs a note, please let me know!

I wibbled a little at the unevenness of their colonial and sexual relationship here, but writing in America's POV, I hope I mitigated that a little.


End file.
